MODERNISED BY R. H. HORNE. THE REVE’S PROLOGUE. When all had laughed at this right foolish case Of Absalom and credulous Nicholas, [49] Diverse folk diversely their comments made. But, for the most part, they all laughed and played, Nor at this tale did any man much grieve, Unless indeed ’twas Oswald, our good Reve. Because that he was of the carpenter craft, In his heart still a little ire is left. He gan to grudge it somewhat, as scarce right; “So aid me!” quoth he; “I could such requite By throwing dust in a proud millers eye, If that I chose to speak of ribaldry. But I am old; I cannot play for age; Grass-time is done—my fodder is now forage; This white top sadly writeth mine old years; Mine heart is also mouldy’d as mine hairs: And since I fare as doth the medlar tree, That fruit which time grows ever the worse to be Till it be rotten in rubbish and in straw. When “We old men, as I fear, the same lot draw; Till we be rotten can we not be ripe. We ever hop while that the world will pipe; For in our will there sticketh ever a nail, To have a hoary head and a green tail, As hath a leek; for though our strength be lame, Our will desireth folly ever the same; For when our climbing’s done, our words aspire; Still in our ashes old is reeking fire. [50] “Four hot coals have we, which I will express: Boasting, lying, anger, and covetousness. These burning coals are common unto age, Our old limbs well may stumble o’er the stage, But will shall never fail us, that is sooth. Still in my head was always a colt’s tooth, As many a year as now is passed and done, Since that my tap of life began to run. For certainly when I was born, I trow, Death drew the tap of life, and let it flow; And ever since the tap so fast hath run, That well-nigh empty now is all the tun. The stream of life but drips from time to time; The silly tongue may well ring out and chime Of wretchedness, that passéd is of yore: With aged folk, save dotage, there’s nought more.” When that our Host had heard this sermoning, He gan to speak as lordly as a king; And said, “Why, what amounteth all this wit? What! shall we speak all day of Holy Writ? The devil can make a steward fit to preach, Or of a cobbler a sailor, or a leech. Say forth thy tale; and tarry not the time. Lo Deptford! and the hour is half-way prime: Lo Greenwich! there where many a shrew loves sin— It were high time thy story to begin.” “Now, fair sirs,” quoth this Oswald, the old Reve, “I pray you
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